“So are you going to watch it?”

“What... the Eurovision nonsense?”

“The song contest... yes.”

“No.”

“Oh, but I thought you liked it.”

“Really. How long have we been married my sweet?”

“Eleven years... nearly, why?”

“Because for all those 11 years... and a good few more before that, I have always hated the bloody Eurovision Song crap.”

“But you used to always watch it.”

“Correction: I sometimes watched it – and only so I could listen to Terry Wogan take the mickey out of all those naff songs and singers.”

“But we still get it, only now it comes with a Maltese commentary.”

“And that’s a large part of the problem.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s unlistenable to... believe me, it’s even worse than the Euro-drivel itself.”

“Do you think we’ve got a chance this year?”

“By we – I take it you mean Malta – and no, we have not got a rabbi in Islamic State’s chance this year... as in all the other years. I tell you woman, the contest is so corrupt. The only way Malta could win would be through bribery and corruption on a mega scale that would bankrupt the country... and for what?”

“You tell me.”

“So we would have the honour of staging the thing the following year and bankrupting the country for a second time.”

“Be nice though... seeing all those stars coming here.”

“Stars! What stars? I’ve seen more stars when you’ve whacked me over the head with a table lamp when I’ve come home bladdered from the każin.”

“I still think it would be nice to win.”

“Why?”

“Oh you know... put the island on the map.”

The only way Malta could win would be through bribery and corruption on a mega scale that would bankrupt the country

“You don’t know what you’re talking about woman... this island is well and truly on the map... just ask the people smugglers, they know where we are... worse luck.”

“Have you heard this year’s Malta entry – Warrior?”

“Sadly yes.”

“What do you think of its chances?”

“I think its chances are pretty good.”

“Unh?”

“That is it stands a pretty good chance of emulating our most humiliating performance of a few years back and coming last... if it makes it through to the finals, that is... and frankly I think your mother croaking her Abba’s greatest hits in the shower stands a much better chance.”

“So what do you think we need to do to win?”

“We, that is Malta, needs a gimmick. Just look at some of the past winners. We’ve had a transvestite, a transvestite with a beard, a band made up of ghouls, a combo of singing grannies.”

“They didn’t win though... the singing grannies.”

“True, but the point I’m making is – that apart from getting a billion dollar grant from the EU or the IMF – we need a gimmick.”

“A gimmick? What are you suggesting?”

“Well, going on previous results, I reckon we need a band comprising four singing, bewhiskered transvestite grannies... dressed as multicultural ghouls, belting out the most mind-numbing ditty our benighted composers can come up with.”

“And you think that would make Malta win the Eurovision Song Contest?”

“No, but it would be a lot more fun than Warrior.”

“I think they should get Chiara or Ira Losco or Mary Spiteri to sing it.”

“Mary Spiteri? Oh purleez! She’s older than my granny.”

“I liked the one she did... Little Brat.”

“That was then, this is now.”

“You know what they should do... They should get that nice Joseph Calleja to sing something by Mozart or Verdi.”

“Mozart or Verdi? You dozy cow, the object of the Eurovision thing is that they sing original songs... by living composers. Both of the ones you mentioned have been dead for donkey’s years. And anyway, with them on board, the TV companies would be hard pushed to focus on all those anxious faces from Malta backstage in the green room.”

“Pity... I like him.”

“So do I, but he’s got more sense than to get himself mixed up in any Euro trash-fest.”

“Oh you, always moaning... are you going to keep this up all night, or are you going to switch the TV on... Eurovision starts in five minutes.”

“Oh right... there you go. What’s the odds on us coming last again?”